Who's Your Daddy?
by The Reading Elf
Summary: On April 26, 1971, both James Rossi and Anthony DiNozzo were born in the same New York hospital. When the newborn DiNozzo dies in his mother's arms, Senior makes a life altering decision that forever changes the lives of two families.
1. Dying to Live

_**Summary: On April 26, 1971, both James David Rossi and Anthony David DiNozzo were born in the same New York hospital. When newborn DiNozzo dies in his mother's arms, Senior makes a life altering decision that forever changes the lives of two Italian families. **_

_**Warnings: Just some good ol' kidnapping of a newborn and cursing.**_

_**Author's Note: Okay, so, I changed the birth year of the Rossi and DiNozzo characters to better fit my bit of fanfiction. Basically, this story is gonna be one of those "my newborn died so my husband decided to switch my dead baby for a different alive Italian baby" stories. Enjoy!**_

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><p>Anthony David DiNozzo Senior was not a happy man. He stood tall next to his wife and newborn, his light gray Ermenegildo Zegna Bespoke suit jacket thrown carefully on the uncomfortable hospital chair next to the large single bed in the private room. He wore an expensive dark blue button down tucked fashionably into his gray trousers, a black belt and tan colored Italian leather shoes finishing his $23,000 outfit. Next to him sat Josephine Ethel DiNozzo, a small, frail Italian woman with a hot body and even better assets. It was, in fact, the way she used those assets was how she snuck her way into Anthony Senior's heart nearly a year ago. Now, they were here. To her husband, it was her fault they were in their current situation. His wife wore a blue gown with a stereotypical 1970s circle design. The cloth was cheap, in his opinion. Josie, his petname for his wife, held a small lifeless infant in her cradled arms.<p>

"I'm so sorry," she was crying through a light accent. Her small chin shook violently as she cried, large rounded tears falling from her tall cheek bones. She could be a model if she wanted to, the man decided, with her beauty in any situation. Mascara from the night before mixed with the salty liquid, creating a black trail down her cheeks. "I fell asleep while Little Antonio was drinking from my breasts …he was – he – he was like this when I woke up. I'm so sorry. He won't – he won't wake up and I'm sorry, Anthony." She looked up to him pathetically with bright blue eyes.

Bending forward, the no nonsense businessman smiled comfortingly to his wife. "You're fine," the first generation American of his Italian family said, slowly brushing Josie's wild brown hair behind her left ear. "The boy is still warm, my love," he said flashing a large, flirtatious smile. "If a nurse asks, simply tell her I took our child to the nursery." Slowly he took the swathed infant into his strong arms from his wife's, whispering to her, "Do stop crying. It will make us look suspicious. Got it?" When she continued to cry, he slapped her, holding his lifeless child with one arm. "I asked you a question. Do you want a child?"

"I – yes," she nodded her head several times. "Darling, all I ever wanted was a child with you."

"Then stop blubbering. I'm going to make a small switch in the nursery and I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. Be sure to feed Junior in the morning."

"Okay," she whispered, looking to her shaking pale arms with sad blue eyes. Her fingers were numb. She had killed her baby. Her sweet, innocent little boy. She did it, no one else. Slowly, Josie closed her eyes, leaning against the comfortable pillows of the bed. She nodded to herself and thought of ways to be a better person, a better mother.

Starting tomorrow, she would only hold her son when she was supposed to. Tomorrow, she said to herself, she would love him every day of his life. Tomorrow, she would be sure to help her son with whatever he needed. Tomorrow, she would become a better person.

Tomorrow.

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><p>Anthony David DiNozzo Senior walked down the hospital corridors with his casual, businessman stride. He had a smile on his face, large, happy and seemingly carefree; to any other person in the hospital, he looked like a husband holding his newborn. Nobody knew the child was dead, that his mother murdered him. No one needed to know, either. He arrived to the nursery within minutes, standing in front of the large window to see rows and rows of potential new sons. The majority of the newborns were swindled in blue, with two empty bassinets on opposite sides of the room. There were fifteen rows, eleven in each isle. Anthony smiled to himself; he could have a new son, better and stronger. A female nurse in a white uniform dress walked into the room carrying a small baby boy in a blue blanket, setting the child down in one of the empty and clear bassinets. He felt himself tighten his grip on the boy his wife gave birth to, hiding its dead face into his chest.<p>

"Is that your boy," a man asked next to him, appearing out of nowhere. He wore cheap, inexpensive black pants and a light purple button up. The man was clean shaved with thick eyebrows. He had a long, Italian nose, a small, rounded chin and short brown hair and eyes. His tall, military demeanor screamed through his new parent smile.

Anthony himself, much like the obvious new father, had brown eyes. He could work with that. If the nurse who just laid a newborn baby boy in the nursery was anything to go by, this man just had a son. A strong personality, like the man who stood beside him had, like the man's son would probably gain, was a good thing if the businessman wanted his son to take over the company as an adult. After his study of the man who stood empty handed, Anthony nodded, deepening his greedy smile. "My wife wanted to keep our boy with her, but I wanted to make sure she got some real rest tonight. You know?"

The man laughed, throwing his head back. His bright brown eyes squinted with the movements. "David Rossi," he said, standing with his hands on his hips.

"Anthony DiNozzo Senior," he answered accordingly, holding his dead baby one handed with his left side. "Pleasure to meet you. First time dad?"

"Yeah," he laughed with what Senior supposed was glee. "My wife and I didn't think we could have children. It's a happy day for our family."

"Ha, I understand. Congratulations," Anthony said, trying to keep the conversation short.

Rossi, however, would not have it. He kept digging, taking in the DiNozzo's short brown hair and criminal, wanting brown eyes. He had a large alcohol induced gut that the FBI special agent did not, and his business like and harsh personality made the man stand out. His exterior screamed old money, making Rossi assume he would do anything to get what he wanted. He could only guess what the man wanted, and probably would never know, either. His stomach twisted slightly. The way he held his newborn put Rossi on edge. The obvious businessman had fat fingers, a golden ring on his right ring finger, and he snuggled, strangled, almost, his son to his chest. "Thanks so much." The FBI agent said, his smile brightening. "I can't believe it. Same to you, I suppose. Were you excited?"

"Ah, very." He rubbed the infant's small body lovingly. "My wife and I, we were very surprised when she was told of the pregnancy – but, of course, happy."

Rossi nodded, laughing with the man. He should lay back, he thought to himself. Stop finding work and bringing it home. He was a father now, and he needed to be home more often. Perhaps transfer from the BAU, maybe enter a nice white collar unit. Heck, he snorted internally, he might even snag a nine to five job. Once again, the agent smiled, his large white teeth prominent. "Good meeting you. I'm going back home for the night. You want to grab a beer?"

"No," Anthony laughed. "I'm more of a rum and coke kind of guy myself. Another night? I'm exhausted."

"Consider it done. Find me in room 231 tomorrow. See you around?"

"Yes," the businessman said, once again moving his cradled son into his chest, supporting him to his left side to shake Rossi's hand. "Have a good night."

"You, too," the agent called, nodding his head as he walked away.

Anthony DiNozzo smiled. That Rossi was a smooth talker, happy and kind. He couldn't wait to take that from the other Italian. The nurse left the room minutes later, and all too soon, Anthony made the switch with the newborns. He smiled as he did so. Both boys had brown hair and small bodies. No one would know or suspect a thing. He simply switched ID bands around the boys, placing his new son in the bassinet that read _Anthony David DiNozzo_, leaving his old son, the weak thing that it was, in James David Rossi's crib.

Only the strong survived in this world; everyone knew that. Sometimes, though, people needed to carve paths for the weak to become strong. His new son would have a better life now, one with a rich family. The boy would have anything his heart could desire. Toys and money; what more could the infant want? "Goodnight, Junior," he whispered when he slipped out the empty room nearly as fast as he entered. He wasn't sure which child he was talking to.

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><p>He didn't know where he was going. Anthony DiNozzo Senior was walking slowly, contemplating what he just did. He still has a son. He and his wife were going to raise a male heir to their combined fortune, whether that child would be happy or not, that part was unknown. He continued his journey until, somehow, he stood near maternity room 231. He wasn't thinking when he entered the opened room quietly, stumbling – damn it, did he scruff his new shoes? – when he did so. A small sleeping woman was the only occupant besides himself in the room. She was rather small, tiny, compared to his own wife. She had brownish blond hair and, according to her hospital chart, green eyes. She weighed 124 pounds. Not bad, Anthony thought to himself. She breathed lightly, kindly. Her whole aroma screamed new mother. Even in her exhausted sleep, she smiled.<p>

Carolyn was a good name for the woman, meaning that of joy. Anthony could see that. He supposed, he thought as he walked from the room, consciously walking towards the hospital exit, that she wouldn't be very joyful tomorrow. Carolyn Rossi was married to the man he had met in the hallway, David. David himself had said the couple had been surprised the two had actually had a child. Tomorrow, though, the strangers would not have a child. Tomorrow, Anthony would. He and Josie would have a son when they awoke in the morning. He knew he would, he assured that fact when he switched the children.

Walking to his car, he smiled once again to himself. He would have a son in the morning. He wasn't sure if it would be happy, or kind, or even a good kid, but that didn't matter, because that kid was his. His son and nobody else's.

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><p><em><strong>Notes: The first chapter is complete. I'll continue soon, within the next two weeks. What do you guys think? Reviews keep this story going, so please drop a comment and tell me anything that could be better or what was wrong or anything of the sorts. I love criticism. <strong>_

_**Thank you for your support,**_

_**The Reading Elf**_


	2. Childhood Gone

_**Summary: On April 26, 1971, both James Rossi and Anthony DiNozzo were born in the same New York hospital. When newborn DiNozzo dies in his mother's arms, Senior makes a life altering decision that forever changes the lives of two Italian families. **_

_**Warnings: Just some good ol' kidnapping of a newborn and cursing.**_

_**Author's Note: I'm back! Thanks for the reviews and please later continue your support. I do love reviews. Enjoy the story, please!**_

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><p>On April 27, 1971, Anthony David DiNozzo arrived to his wife's hospital room, smiling to himself as he watched Josephine DiNozzo cue their son from her cradled arms. He had stopped at the empty room of the Rossi family, the occupants long gone by the afternoon. The couple had awoken to the death of their son. When the DiNozzo's woke for the morning, they knew their son was alright, sleeping safely from his bassinet in the hospital nursery. Senior had made sure of it.<p>

Given that police wasn't swarming him as soon as he stepped into the maternity ward, he would assume no one knew about the switch. That thought made him smile. _No one knew_. He had a new son and no one thought or knew any different.

"Look, my love, little Antonio is such a lovely child. He has already had his first laugh. And he has green eyes!" Josie sounded nothing like the woman from yesterday with her previous angst filled tone and shaking hands. She was happy today, her bright blue eyes crinkled upwards with her large smile as she cradled her son.

Her son. Her son with _green_ eyes. Shit. Those were the businessman's first thoughts. He crossed his arms and he frowned heavily. That was not good. It seemed his son had his mother's eyes. And not the right mother at that. Already, this child was causing problems for his father.

Ah, he decided, he would cross that bridge if a nurse asked a question about the topic. He smiled, uncrossing her arms and walking into the room. "That is wonderful, my dear. Truly wonderful. Our Anthony will be a ladies man someday," he laughed.

"Yes, yes," she laughed with him. "He will be such a good boy."

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><p>As life would have it, Josie DiNozzo wasn't the best mother. She, much like her husband, was absent from her son's life. More often than not, she was unconscious in an alcohol induced haze. Raising another woman's child caused more guilt than she originally thought it would. She did, however, keep her promise to herself. Every day she had with her son, which, in ten years wasn't nearly enough as it should have been, Josie loved her little Antonio. She held him when she was awake, sometimes even singing to him at night.<p>

The only time she ever regretted her life decision of keeping her stolen baby was when she sat dying in the same New York hospital her son was born in. She had cancer, and she had refused what they called "radiation." She had only months either way. Josie could feel her days were numbered as she watched movies with Antonio. On her final day, when the two had just finished the black and white film _It's a Wonderful Life_, she laid with a strong fever, too tired to move and painfully quiet as she breathed heavily with the help of her cannula, gasping in for air like an asphyxiating fish on land desperate for water. She was too weak to move from her final resting spot.

Was she wrong to raise another woman's child? Until her dying days, she had never really thought of her crimes.

Her son was crying, holding her hands. "Mama, I don't want you to die," he was saying in his low, pleading voice that only a child could produce. "Please don't leave me." His big, innocently bright green eyes looked sadly at her, his eyes a constant reminder that the boy who sobbed for his mother was crying over the wrong woman.

Over a decade ago, Josie gave birth to a little blue eyed boy; she could remember. Though, for the past eleven years, she had raised a green eyed angel. She distantly wondered how her other child would had turned out. Would he be tall, like her current son? Would he had cut his own hair at the age of six? Would he had climbed the tallest tree in the yard when no one was watching him and cry at the top until the local fire department rescued him? Would he had played soccer in the backyard during the hot summers, able to win or lose against himself? Would her other son dissect old radio and television sets, simply because he wanted to know what was inside and how it worked? Would he had been able to put the sets back together again when he was done, sometimes making the televisions work better than before like her Antonio? Maybe her real son would have had temper tantrums. Antonio rarely had those as a small child. Would her other child make friends as fast as her now son? Would he understand the way people acted, and try to help others whenever he could? She didn't know. Josie did know that her little boy, her current child, was her little green eyed angel.

Nothing could change that.

"I know, baby," she said breathlessly. Her beautiful Italian accent had been Americanized over the years, much like the rest of her. Her body, now deathly skinny, was nothing in comparison to the beauty of her younger self. Her previous long brown hair had long been chopped off and dyed to a light blond color to match her neighbors, her short, plain finger nails now long and painted. Her dying face was forever young with expensive surgeries. Nothing about her was the same from her native county.

After meeting Anthony many years ago, she knew he was different. He was kind and happy, willing to do anything for her. The two married within months of meeting each other, neither of the couple ever looking back. Why would they? The two had a kind, gentle child months after their marriage. The boy was smart, and knew about things children his age shouldn't. Antonio could connect with people. He made it a habit with the hospital staff.

Once again, she wore a light blue gown in the hospital, and once again, she was left wondering where her husband was. Not here, obviously. Never was he with her or their son. Sometimes that man left her wondering if she should have kept her own son. Maybe both of the children would have been better off where they were. She herself was not a very motherly person, nor was Anthony fatherly – both of the members of the DiNozzo family were vastly different from _those_ people, the crying couple over a decade ago in the maternity ward. The ones from the room across from her own. The woman who gave a muffled scream before her husband attached her in a vise like hug. Josie could hear the woman struggle from where she stood, screaming for her son, her miracle baby.

If the rich woman knew her husband, the small, sleeping green eyed infant in her arms probably belonged to that woman. Little did the sobbing woman know that her small babe was resting so peacefully in the room right across from her, blissfully unaware of his heartbroken mother. Josie understood that pain – the panic, the struggle to take in another breath as she held the dead body of her own child. She could remember the fear grip at her very core, leaving her wondering _why, why, why_. A hole planted itself into her heart.

A nurse, probably new if her large brown eyes and unshed tears were anything to go by, stepped into the room, apologizing for the noise as she closed the door.

Senior did not cry when he found his dead son's body. He simply got a new son. She briefly questioned if she would be replaced as fast as their son had been after her own death. Josie was getting a headache from all of the thinking. She shook her small head, her thin, short hair quaking at the movement. "You need to know," she spoke out loud, her voice rasping as she spoke; her fever controlling her mouth. "My little Antonio, you need…you need to know." Her voice was as low as a whisper and tears pooled at her searching blue eyes.

"What, Mama," the boy asked just as quietly. He held her frail hands between his own. His natural tan skin went against her own pale tone. He had arched eyebrows and long chestnut brown hair that reached his attached earlobes, a genetic occurrence which matched neither of his parents. Both Senior and Josie had detached earlobes. His green eyes were another trait that should not be there. Those eyes should be blue, like her real son. Antonio didn't know, though. He was only eleven and thankfully saw none of the differences between his preteen body and his parents. Josie began to breathe more heavily, with an effort that shouldn't be there. She wondered if she would be joining her own child soon.

"You – oh God, my baby – you're not mine. You're not m – my baby," she stuttered, tears rolling from her eyes. "You – you're not…not my…baby," the last word was spoken in a tone lower than a whipser, causing Anthony Junior to strain his hearing to understand – for her words to click in his mind.

"I'm – am I..." he paused, watching his mother hyperventilate. He was crying, too. Her heart monitor was going off, flashing colors and numbers rising. "Am I adopted, Mama?" His heart pounded as he awaited the answer.

Tony was not given an answer. The bulky black and white television that was hooked into the wall shut off with a click when he bumped the button as moved farther from the bed, his mother turning off much the same way. She suddenly became weak, her breathing slowing into an almost nonexistent rate, her fingers slipping from his grip. Her deep blue eyes stared at the wall above, pupils blown, tears still falling from her high cheek bones, and chest stilled, unmoving. The monitor was beeping, louder and louder with each passing moment. Seconds afterwards, an army of nurses stormed in. He was forcibly removed from the room, his body wiggling, punching the women as they dragged him.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," he was yelling, screaming as a mantra until he no longer had a voice. Tears were running down his short face. Half an hour later, he was back in his mother's room. He sat quietly, calmly in her room while he awaited his father's arrival into the hospital. His fingers shook with rigorous quakes, staring at the floor next to his mother's bed. His mom was still in bed, lying lifelessly with a sheet covering her body. The cancer had taken her away from Tony; that is what the doctors had told him.

His father didn't arrive until six hours later, long after his mother was taken to the morgue. The nurses had allowed Tony to stay in the freshly cleaned room, so that is where Senior had found his son.

"Come, Anthony," he said loudly into the nearly empty, dark room. "Let's go home." The man did not pause for his the child to answer, simply turning and waiting impatiently by the nurses' station, his arms crossed defensively and tapped his foot against the white tiled floors. Tony followed his father eight minutes later, green eyes downcast and nearly as lifeless as his mother's. His mind was going a hundred miles an hour with wonder, wonder if he would ever be called Antonio again, wonder of what his mother had meant nearly seven hours ago, wonder of if he was adopted, wonder of who his real parents - real family were. He continued to walk, following his last living parent into the garage where his father slapped him harshly over the back of his head.

"Impudent boy," he muttered, climbing into the back of his limo and not dare awaiting for his son before slamming the door closed. Tony stood frozen in shock for thirty full seconds, then followed his father's lead.

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><p>Anthony was twelve now, standing fearfully by his father's clean desk in their Long Island mansion. He had just been kicked out yet another boarding school. His father was not happy. An unhappy Senior was never a good thing.<p>

At the moment, he stood in his former uniform, a white polo covered by a black suit jacket, a dark blue tie, and black pants. His shoes were a dark brown and leather material. He was practically shaking.

"You know, Anthony," he said in a low tone, sitting at his large wooden desk and causing his son to stand straighter with fear and hatred. Over the years, Tony had found he dreaded being called Anthony; only his father ever did so. Over a year ago, he was correct when he allowed his mind wondered - no one had ever called him Antonio again. He now introduced himself simply as Tony. "You have your mother's eyes."

"Thank you, father," he said. In truth, the last year and a half had been long. He was starting to forget the details of his mother. Had she had brown hair and blue eyes? Maybe it was green eyes. Maybe she had blond hair. Before long, like every time he thought of the woman who raised him, he became frustrated. All of the pictures of his mother were in a retro late seventies and early eighties photographs, with a dull yellow filter that displaced the colored details. The only thing he could do was agree with his father.

"You have been enrolled into Rhode Island Military Academy; you are starting Monday."

"Yes, father."

"Anthony?"

"Yes, father?"

"I'm disowning you. You will be left no money when I die and I am now turning your room into a gym. Be sure to collect all of your needed items before you leave. Everything else will be disposed of. Understood?" Senior did not listen for his son's reply. He continued his paperwork; his business was not well. He estimated his money would only last half a decade at most. Therefore, when he got a call from yet another boarding school, saying young Anthony's was going to be dismissed, Senior simply said okay. He did not fight the expulsion. Three schools in almost a two year period was too much for Senior to handle. He was running low on both money and patients for a child he has no biological connections to. The child was not his; he never was. So, Senior was done covering for the boy if he didn't need to, and from now on, he wouldn't.

That boy was on his own.

From where he stood, Tony hesitated from answering right away, instead gnawing on the inside of his left cheek. The only things he needed were his photo album, clothing and a couple of Betamax and VHS tapes. He lived, mostly, without any material possessions, which was a good thing, he supposed. The disowning thing was a necessary evil, one of which he was okay to accept. His father held no real love for him, always leaving him at hotels and houses, sending him always to boarding schools after him mother died. Senior ignored him the majority of the time. Disowning? It might be the best thing that has happened to him.

"Yes, father," he finally stated.

Turning, leaving the room, he couldn't help but wonder if this was even his real family. His mother had never answered his question that fateful day nearly two years ago. His father had beat him when questioned. Maybe…maybe he was meant for a better life, with a different family. He smiled at the butterflies in his stomach. A different family would have been nice.

Once in his room, however, he frowned. Too bad this was his life, he thought, looking at the small, practically closet sized and bare bedroom. He had a wooden twin sized bed, a book shelve and an old television on a wooden dresser that matched his bed.

When he was gone, it will look as if no one had ever lived in the room.

Quickly, he grabbed the old leather photo album that was hidden beneath his bed, holding it tightly against his chest. His photo album was the only thing he had left of his mother, the warn maroon leather a reminder to his mama's soft, warm touch.

The photo album was one of Tony's most precious items. It allowed him to remember what he had always forgotten. Her normal olive colored skin that became pale with death near the end of her days, her hair flat and without life, her eyes rounded and distant. What color were her eyes? He didn't remember, and the pictures were not in color. He couldn't remember the little stuff, like what color her eyes and hair was, or her laugh, or how long her hair was, or –

He had forgotten a lot over the past year and a half. That was another reason he held so much value to his photo album, filled with pictures of his mama when she was younger, when she partied with men who were not his father and dressed like women his father's special catalogs. He had one picture of his family, where he, his mother and father were all over dressed; Tony, in his old, much hated sailor suit, his mother in a black dress, and his father in the same suit Tony later ruined for a Halloween costume.

Tony was six in the photo, smiling widely with a large missing tooth and even bigger eyes. He was innocent back then, still being called Antonio by his mama; her _little angel_. He was only ever called a _troublesome mistake_ when his father ever remembered he was actually alive. Tony didn't even have enough energy to care. He flipped the page, finding several pictures of himself in the old black and white coloring.

One, where he played on the swing set, looking joyfully into the camera while his ear length hair opposed the wind, and the other, where Tony tinkered with an old radio and a large flathead screwdriver on the wooden back patio of the household. The picture he held the most sentimental value to was the one where his mother bent over him, nearly hugging his shoulders while Tony himself wore a coned birthday hat, mother and son wearing two brilliant, happy smiles. He had just turned four in the picture, his hair short-ish hair messy and icing on his nose. It was one of two photos he had that were just him and his mother.

The second photo he was posed in with his mother was taken minutes after his birth. He was swindled in a blanket while resting in his mother's arms. He was a tiny baby, crying, by the looks of it. His mother smiled from the bed with clear exhaustion on her face.

God, he missed her.

His heart ached, a gaping hole appearing with the loss of the woman who raised him. From the outside of the house he basically didn't live in anyways, a car beeped. It was his ride, he knew. Tony had to leave now, to never return. He held no regrets to that, either.

Closing the album, he packed up his items into a black bag. He had movies, two books, a month's worth of clothing – mostly jeans, shirts, and boxers – and his photo album. He turned off the lights in the room with a click, throwing the backpack full of stuff over his shoulder and walking away, not once looking back as he left the near empty household.

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><p>Nearly six years later, Tony sat in a small white tiled locker room of Rhode Island Military Academy. He was alone, dressed in nothing put a white towel, allowing his muscular figure to show to the world. His dark brown hair was short now, messy after a long shower. His coach had just dropped by, yelling with happiness about Tony obtaining <em>the<em> scholarship. He had done it, he thought with a pleasant smile. He had gotten the scholarship. Not his teammates, not anyone else; him.

He supposed he should smile more now. The worry of not going to college was gone, replaced by the needing feeling _to tell the entire world_ that he had made it into Ohio State University with a full ride. Tony had to tell his team tomorrow, to get the worry and anxiety off the shoulders of the other seniors of the academy waiting for the same scholarship. Not only since he was the one to get the scholarship, but it was traditional for the football captain to make the announcements of the scholarship winners.

The couch had left an hour ago, but it felt like minutes. The handshake given to him the words spoken – _you're the best damn athlete at this campus, DiNozzo_ – were replying over and over in his mind. He had done it.

He had a promising career as a NFL quarterback in his future. That was exciting. Though he liked soccer the best, and played basketball the most, he had gotten a fucking _full ride_ into _college_. The seventeen year old, whose favorite school subject with Calculus II and enjoyed "nerdy" videogames on weekends, suddenly couldn't wait to graduate. He decided he would enjoy a fun recording of Rat Pack when he got back to his dorm. He deserved it.

Standing, he dressed slowly in jeans and a dark blue polo, once again staring at his right hand, words echoing into his head.

_Best damn athlete at this campus._

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><p>Goosebumps lit up against his skin, a cold sweat dripping from his face despite a hot, deadly flame nearing his body. He had just ran into a burning apartment, hearing the fearful calls of a young child. Tony left his friends just seconds ago, not hesitating to leap to a run. He was in his second year of classes at Ohio State University, on the Dean's List, and almost at the top of his class. He hoped he wouldn't die…not that many people would miss him. His football team, a few of his nicer teachers, his last couple of girlfriends, sure, but not his family.<p>

He jumped slightly when a flame danced closely around him. He could feel the searing pain of the heat everywhere. He was yelling, chocking on smoke that he breathed. His eyes watered as he called out, only to hear a small whimper from a room a few feet closer the stairs.

"Anyone here," he asked loudly, trying to speak over the roar of the fire, the crackle of wood burning. The whimper called to him again in a room that was once blue, now darkened from smoke damage.

Had his friends called 911 yet? Where were the firefighters?

"Here," a small boy crooked from the closet, his dark chocolate colored skin darker from the smoke and charcoal of the fire. Tony lifted him with ease, preparing his body to run as fast as he cold out of the burning house.

"_Wait, my – my s- my sister_!" The boy called wiggling his body towards the burning stairs. Another small yell, a new, girlish one, called from the room next to the stairs. A near impenetrable wall of fire stood between the two boys and the room, causing Tony to hesitate. He was no firefighter, and his gray Ohio State University sweatshirt wouldn't protect him and the child from the painful burns that would likely come if they were to save her.

She continued to beg for help, coughing over her sentences. She sounded no older than five. The fire was worsening from where he stood, the heat of the room becoming more intense, his thoughts taking seconds. Would he risk the small boy and himself for the girl? Death seemed certain, he thought, as he saw the wall of flames movie closer to the girl's room.

Then another noise, not from the small girl begging for her life, or the boy in his arms, screaming for his baby sister while kicking at Tony, biting and punching at him with small fists to escape the football captain's strong, unwavering grip, the sound of something crackling, something _large_ moving, falling. It was the ceiling, he realized, jumping back and falling through flames with his body rounding around the child in his arms, Tony _willing_ himself to protect the kid. He sprawled to the unsteady floor with the angry child still in his arms. He did not let go of the boy as he laid in a daze, too afraid of the child dying to save his sister. It took him a long four seconds, the girl's screaming getting louder and louder with each passing moment.

He felt genuine fear for the first time in years. He had to save the boy – the girl was a lost cause. They would both _die_ if he went for her. Tony's fight or flight response kick in. He grabbed the kicking and screaming child in his arms and ran, burning his arms as he did so. It took him a total of two minutes to carefully make it back outside, breathing in fresh air for the first time in about six minutes. The now crying boy in his arms didn't have a scratch or burn on him. His friends that had stayed outside piled around him, approaching sirens in the background.

The football star was gasping for air, dropping to the ground with the fighting kid still in arms. His arms and legs felt like they were on fire, and he doubted he would be able to participate in the upcoming basketball season.

"My babies," a dark colored woman screamed loudly, running to the scene with her small purse bouncing behind her, her brown eyes watching her burning home with horror. "Where – my – my babies," she yelled again, getting closer to the teenagers.

"Mommy," the boy bellowed, his voice raw, finally escaping from Tony's grip.

The two reunited, the mother crying over the child as they hugged. Tony stayed where he was, adrenalin wearing off from where he sat. Medics arrived before the fire trucks, the two men running to the group of people. A fire engine pulled up by the fire hydrant down the street, dropping large five inch hose and connected it to the hydrant before driving up closer to the house. The ladder truck pulled up after that, parking right in front of the house. Both sets of apparatus got to work immediately with their respected jobs of the company.

"Check the boy," Tony muttered, slowly waving the two medics off of him, coughing as he did so. "He was – he was in there longer." He was still gasping for air, but the men in blue uniform shirts backed off. He looked towards the woman, now crying, hugging both her son and a large firefighter with his SCBA pack still on. The man blocked the view of a stretcher passing by, a small, lifeless body in a dark body bag loading onto one of the three awaiting ambulances.

Tony changed his view, finally listening to what his friends were saying.

"That was so wicked, man, like –"

"I can't believe that just happened –"

"Are you sure you're okay – "

"Dude, you are so getting laid – "

"Is that girl dead –"

He cringed, once again ignoring his friends. A two man ambulance crew made their way towards Tony, and he openly accepted the help. When on the ambulance, he went silent. With a non-rebreather pasted onto his pale charcoaled face, he closed his eyes, his body finally relaxing, cringing as a wet cloth was applied to his forearms to cover his dark pink burns, patches of skin still intact in between his painful injury. He had just begun to feel again, his adrenaline wearing thin. His previous numb limbs were now intensely scorching as the medics examined him.

He was attached to a twelve lead. He could see his blood pressure – horrifyingly low – his oxygen levels wavering more than a late ocean's tide, and his heart beeping like the drums of an orchestra from the heart monitor to his right. His chest was numb. One of the medics lifted his legs, putting a thickly folded white sheet under his feet and laying him back into the long stretcher. A blanket was carefully thrown over his warm body and around his shoulders. He wanted to kick away the cloth, but the medics insisted on keeping it on him. They began asking questions, but he could not hear them. What were they asking him?

He had saved a child…but at the same time, he allowed another one to die. He chose his own life over another. He was basically a murderer. Slowly, he dozed off into a deep state of unconsciousness, darkness overtaking his vision. Even through his exhaustion, Tony could still feel the intense heat of flames, still smell his own flesh burning, still hear the little girl crying for a savior over the loud roar of fire. Before entering his sleep, he wondered if he would ever be able to not remember this day.

* * *

><p>Tony awoke to the smile of a female nurse with beautiful caramel colored skin and short, curly black hair. She began to speak in a low, pleasant tone. He couldn't understand her, his ears feeling as though they were filled with cotton. His heart skipped a beat when the woman took his hand into her own.<p>

"-u're going to be okay," she said, her words sudden. Tony blinked at the unexpected noises of the hospital. His heart monitor was going strong next to him. The bustling utterance of hundreds of people talking and walking, speaking to each other, crying, laughing and joking was loud. He wondered when he gotten here, and more importantly, why.

"You're going to be in the burn unit for at least another week. The injuries were worse than originally thought by first responders," she was saying, her practiced smile large and teeth white. "The burns along your back and legs went unseen until you were brought into the ER." Her face was long, her nose short and chin round. Tony tried to smile charmingly at her, knowing he failed immediately when he made a strangled noise.

"I can only give you a few pieces of ice at a time. We had to ventilate you when the smoke inhalation made your throat swell. You're going to be sore for a while." The nurse lifted his non-rebreather, sending the sweet relief down his painfully dry throat. "We're going to keep you on high-flow oxygen therapy for the next few days."

The nurse – Sarah Smith, according to his white board that was on the wall directly in front of him – was walking around the room, adding new things to his IV. "Just a little something for the pain. Try not to move too much. You have third degree burns around your feet and calves, second and first degree buns along your lower back, and minor burning, cuts, bruises and deep bite marks on your forearms," she listed.

Why was he burned? His mind was numb. He felt strangely cold.

"What you did," she said, grabbing his right hand and smoothing his newly cut, short hair with her free hand. "It was brave. You're a hero."

The memories hit him all at once. The screaming, the crying, the burning of flesh and the smell of death in the air. He felt fearful, more so than he had ever felt before. A little girl was begging for help, a young boy clawing at his arms for escape. It was so hot, the flames loud and roaring, towering over himself and the boy. The noise, a lone whine and sudden crackling, was the only warning he had before the ceiling above him collapsed, forcing him to jump back for safety. He fell into flame, but through adrenaline and instinct, he kept the boy protected without feeling pain.

The path to the girl's room was blocked by an aflamed support beam.

_We will die trying he saved her_, he remembered thinking before tightening his grip on the child in his arms and running through flames and out to safety.

"You're fine, doll," Sarah said, holding down the college student's chest and desperately wishing him to stop flailing. "You're gonna hurt yourself if you keep this up and – _doctor_," she yelled, hoping one of the many doctors in the hospitals would hear her from the hallway. The man's blood pressure had begun to steadily drop, his face paling and his back, most certainly, bleeding from the rash movements.

The staff ran in, pumping the good stuff into the frantic man, immediately calming him. Sarah breathed in a sigh of relief when he stopped moving. Seventy-two hours ago, it had been unclear whether or not he would live. He was put into the intensive care unit for the past two days on heavy anesthetic to keep him unconscious in order to allow his freshly damaged lungs to heal. He was finally moved into the burn unit a mere fourteen hours ago, slowly let off of the drugs over the last day.

His green eyes were the first thing she had saw. She smiled when he blinked in confusion. Several minutes into their interaction, when he begun to – to…she couldn't explain what he was doing – running in a down position? It was truly a strange sight. She tried to hold him down to prevent damage, calling for help. It took twenty long seconds before her coworkers arrived. He struggled until the very last nerve in his body was relaxed, his eyes panicked until they closed and his heart rate evened.

The man did not awake for two more days. His body needed time to heal, both emotionally and physically. Sarah had bought the man a few books when she was let off of her shift…just because. The kid would be in the hospital for at least an addition week she had originally told him. He could use something to keep him busy – and, most importantly, away from mischief. The books were the top three best sellers of the year: _Jurassic Park_ by Michael Crichton, the first volume of a new comic called _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ by Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird, and a new fast seller, _Eyes of a Predator _by David Rossi.

She hoped it would keep him focused on anything other than the pain of his injuries and the death of that little girl.

* * *

><p>He wanted to watch Rat Pack, a favorite comfort method of his dating back to his childhood, but had no means of doing so. There was no television in his hospital room, no VHS player. He couldn't even listen to music. Unread cards littered his room, multicolored balloons everywhere. Flowers had been sent in dozens, all different in breed, size and shape, sitting on desks lining the long, clear window outside of his room. The doctors justified that action to his still recovering throat and lungs.<p>

The nurse – the twenty something year old woman with nice curves and a thin waist, Sarah – had left him three books stacked neatly on his tray. She had helped him sit up so he could read, which quickly became a painfully regretful process, causing him to wish to stay in that position for the rest of his life to prevent any and all farther movement. The first item on his agenda was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles volume one, the comedy causing him to laugh through his mask every several minutes, and in retrospect, he should have known would have been painful – because what wasn't anymore?

Before long, he dozed off for the entirety of the day and well into the night, only half way through the comic. Sarah must had removed it from his hands before she left at the end of her shift. The older woman had become rather attached to Tony.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, coughing through his non-rebreather. The nurse had been correct when she said he'd be sore for a while. His back, his legs, they were on _fire_. His arms hurt. Breathing was unusually difficult.

Tony grabbed the comic, finishing it before he once again feel asleep. He awoke the next day, the sun shining brightly into his room. Sarah's shirt wasn't set to start for another two hours, according to the clock, and a different, less empathetic nurse was on duty.

A man named Martin Robertson, a prude, angry forty or older guy with short, buzzed read hair and dark, narrowed blue eyes that contrasted well with his light blue scrubs. He was tall, with thick, semi-muscular arms. The man had freckles plastered at random along his face, a long nose and strong jaw. He had a dark brown leather watch strapped tightly to his left wrist.

"You have a visitor, if you're up to it," he stated simply, his tone uncaring. "I'm goin'ta change the non-rebreather – the uh – the oxygen mask of yours to a cannula. You need some water?"

"Yeah, I mean, er, yes," Tony said nervously. He hadn't dealt with a man like this since Senior. The exchange took place within seconds, and before he knew it, he had a small cup of water in his hand, a small table hovering over his bed, and a knock on his door. The new oxygen provider wasn't as strong as his non-rebreather. And Tony felt himself struggling to keep a steady breath. "Come in," he called lightly.

The already open door gave him the view of a young, dark skinned woman. She wore her hair naturally, with her long hair flowing gracefully and frizzy to her shoulders. She had a long face, her cheeks high, with dark brown eyes and a small chin. The woman stood straight, watching him hesitantly.

"I am Joanna King," she said. "I wanted to thank you." Her voice was flat, echoing off the quiet afternoon walls of the hospital. "You saved my son."

Tony visibly flinched. He could almost hear the unspoken sentence; _but not my daughter_. He moved his gaze to the dirty, white tiled floors. Joanna wore plain white shoes.

"I'm a nurse, I work sixteen hour shifts – I'm gone before my children rose for school and get home after they go to bed. That's where I was when my baby girl died – at work. Rosaline died alone."

The college student coughed, his back hissing in pain as he did so. His throat didn't care too much for the movements, either. He took a moment to pant before speaking, "I – I'm'a sorry," he said, looking up to see the woman's strong brown eyes.

Joanna moved closer to the young adult. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she said, crossing her arms, her black button up wrinkled at her movements. "It's only because of you that I am still a mother." She uncrossed her arms, seeing Tony's fearful, angsty green eyes watching her. "I'm grateful to you. You saved my son, child. You're a hero."

"I'm a murder," he told her, once again not meeting her gaze. He took a moment to notice the bare white walls of the burn unit. Joanna closed the gap between the two, pulling an uncomfortable and ugly sage green guest chair towards the bed. She used her long fingers to force him to stare into her eyes once she was seated.

"You are no murder, Tony DiNozzo. You, child, had two choices: to save yourself and my son, or die trying to save the three of you. I spoke to the firefighters. There was no possible way of saving my Rose. You made the right decision. I still have a child to call my own." Her tone faltered at the end of her speech, tears freely falling from her eyes. "Thank you for risking your life. You ran into a _burning building _without knowing who or what was inside – and no matter what you may choose to think – I am telling you now that _you are a hero_." She was still crying, her voice wavering yet stern as she spoke. She sounded like a mother commanding a young child to listen to her.

Tony felt tears prickle his own eyes. He had chosen. He wasn't a hero, but he wasn't a murder. He had gotten the forgiveness he needed, and for the first time in days, he felt like he could actually breathe. "Thank you," he whispered.

"I don't think you understand how saving a child's life actually works," she laughed, moving her hands to wipe away her tears. "I thank you. So…thank you."

He paused slightly, no used to praise. "You're welcome."

* * *

><p>Tony David DiNozzo wanted to become a cop. He wanted to help people, to save people. He wanted to save everyone he could. It was nearly a week after his visit with Joanna King, three days after the funeral of Rosaline King – a funeral of which he could not attend. His estimated time of medically advised checkout of the hospital was still days away. He was healing faster than doctors had imagined.<p>

He had denied several reporters interviews so far, and read the first volume to _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ and a book called _Jurassic Park_, both of which were amazing.

The third book, _Eyes of a Predator_, was strangely addicting. He became obsessed with the book, enjoying the way the author could wrote so vigilantly and yet still keep Tony fascinated on both the text and plot. By the end of the text, Tony wanted to take a psychology class during the soon to start spring term. He understood what the author was saying, agreeing where he was going on ideas of the criminals. Tony felt connected, somehow.

Rossi was such a strange name, Tony thought before putting down the book. He wondered when the next book signing was coming to Ohio. Baltimore was fine and all, but he didn't really like the place, not after everything that had happened. He didn't even know if he could play the end of basketball season.

God, he couldn't wait to go back to campus.

* * *

><p>Tony wrote to David Rossi. He didn't know why; he just started to write about the fire, and then he started to write about psychology. Then he asked personal questions to the author. Then he signed his name, making the letter addressed to the man. He sighed from in his room, finally back at his university. Tony ran a hand through his short brown hair – he kinda liked it short, now that it had been burned and later cut by the nice nurses of Baltimore hospital – and he frowned, licking the envelope shut. He wasn't expecting anything out of sending the letter. Nothing at all. In fact, he felt stupid sending fan mail. He didn't think it was a good idea. At all. Which didn't explain why he felt a need to do so.<p>

The letter, two pages in length, simply greeted the author of his new favorite book. It explained how he got a hold of the book, giving a large glimpse into that night in Baltimore and how Rossi quickly became a favorite author.

He really didn't know why he wrote it. With two addresses on the envelope, and a stamp, Tony left it on the table. It was a stupid idea. He sat back onto the blue, uncomfortable couch that belonged to his fraternity, leaving the letter where it was on the old wooden coffee table. He shouldn't send it. Rossi would think _he_ was a predator like the men in the novel. He stiffly laid into the couch, his body still sore, weeks later, and put a bandaged forearm over his eyes.

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but it was dark when he awoke. One of the first things he noticed was the letter was gone. His stomach flipped, but he supposed it had been thrown away. That sucked, he thought, before dragging himself to his feet and rolling into bed. Sleep was always good.

Flashing forward two weeks, Tony no longer wore bandages around his back, legs, or arms, though he still applied ointment when it begun to sting. He was back on the basketball team, wearing a tang top with the number 23 and black gym shorts. His burns were healing nicely, and as the doctors said, there should be little to no scaring in the future.

He had added psychology 101 to his long class schedules. He couldn't wait for the start of the new term. Tony, in the privacy of the library, had already taken to studying the class material. It was an exciting field.

Four weeks after that, he was in his room, lying vertically on his bed. It helped not to lay on his back to often, even though all of his wounds were vertically healed. He was studying – once again – for his psychology class, the large hard back book held by his right hand as the other supported his head. He had a Play Boy magazine covering his study material in case a frat brother came barging in.

Since arriving back into Ohio from his hospital visit to Baltimore, he had gotten more women to hit on him than ever before. They piled towards him in flocks. Teachers were nicer, more understanding if he was late on an assignment when he said he had trouble sleeping and became distracted easily.

That excuse was, mostly, true.

There were nights when he began to sweat, his body becoming unbearably hot. He cold smell smoke, hear the loud roar of flames nearing him. He could feel his skin burning, listening helplessly to a dead girl scream for help she never received.

He always woke up when the ceiling beam fell in slow motion, panting and out of breath.

Tony shook his head. He hated that dream. He turned the page of his textbook, carelessly reading about the Milgram Experiment. His frat brother barged into his room moments later.

"_Ton_," he said, his voice drawing out with excitement. He wore a gray sweatshirt and black jeans, his ear length hair spiked up and gelled. Ron – his first name; Tony never learned his last name – wore a small, hooped earing on his right ear. "Is that the newest addition of Play Boy?!"

The quarterback stared in shock for a total of thirteen seconds before answering. "Uh…yeah, man!" He grinned back at his friend. "You can borrow it when I'm done," he said, laughing.

"You're amazing," Ron practically sung. He went to move from the room, only to pause at the door frame. "Oh, I forgot. This was in the mail box," he called, tossing a small, white folded envelope at his roommate before continuing into the other room.

Tony caught the envelope with a single hand, slightly crushing the paper. Unfolding it, he was surprised to see who sent him mail; David Rossi.

* * *

><p>He is a student at the New York Police Academy. His days entailed gray t-shirts with his name printed neatly across his chest and black exercise shorts. He lived alone now, with his hair kept to academy standards and his green eyes bright. He wore a candidate hat whenever he went outside, and always listened closely whenever his instructors spoke. Tony was, surprisingly enough, in the top of his class, and might become, hopefully, Rookie of the Year.<p>

He enjoyed his classes at the academy to the upmost extent. Just the year before he had graduated Ohio State with his Bachelor of Arts degree in Physical Education. He had moved to New York without hesitation, patiently awaiting his acceptance letter to the Police Academy. He later enrolled into a community college for night classes, eager to obtain a degree in psychology. He hoped he could get a masters in the field within the next decade.

Along with all of his studies, he was a regular handy man at the auto shop down the street from his apartment. He fixed things the mechanic couldn't – and for good money, too. He didn't really need to work, with all of the money his mother had left him years before, but he still did so regardless.

When he arrived home that night, exhausted beyond belief and barley able to hold his eyes open, Tony was happy to see several letters in his mail box. Four were, he was horrified to read, bills, but the other two were from the hospital and retired FBI agent and author David Rossi. The two men regularly wrote to each other, sending greetings, postcards, and occasionally, recipes.

Today's letter, it seemed, was an application to the already filled FBI Academy. He smiled, mentally thanking the man he had never met. Both knew he would never become a fed, but he was extremely thankful that the man was willing to pull suck strings. Tony, though, would rather carve his own path in life.

He threw away the application, turning to walk into his small kitchen. A small note was still in the envelope.

_Think carefully. _

D. Rossi

He rolled his eyes at the ever brief man. The two shared a strange bond. They had never met, yet Tony did not think he could live without talking to his friend. Rossi, since day one, was always helpful. He had helped Tony move on from the fire. He gave Tony advice and their relationship grew from there. Three years later, here they were. Friends who exchanged secret Italian recipes. They wished each other happy holidays whenever they could, and wrote, at least, once a month.

Birthdays were never a thing between the two. Tony didn't know why.

His second letter was opened within seconds. He was not at all surprised about the results of his resent hospital testing. Senior was not his father. Tony had doubts about his paternity since he was a child. He had finally gotten the test done during his mandatory yearly physical.

Tony wasn't disappointed, or angry, or even upset. No, he thought to himself, he was free. For the first time in years, he was able to laugh without a weight holding down his soul. He was not related to a monster.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Hey, guys! Second chapter, as long as it was, is finally finished. I would like to take this time and personally thank the 14 reviewers who were kind enough to answer my calls and pressed the button below. To <strong>__**TranceTony1228**__**, Guest, fanfanfiction, clt, Guest, Yin7, Megth, LAG0802, singer-s-lament, Jesco123, leahk80, EvE79, female half – breed, and cflat, thank you! This was the most reviews in the first week of a published story I have ever received. I would also like to thank everyone who put the story in their favorites and/or is following this. Most importantly, thanks to every person who read the story!**_

_**Please point out any mistakes in the story so far. Reviews are always nice. I do enjoy criticism to the upmost degree. **_

_**I'll update either next week or the week after that. The plot is actually moving now. The next chapter will involve the teams meeting. Remember, reviews keep me motivated. **_

_**With hugs and much thanks, **_

_**The Reading Elf**_


	3. Meet the Family

_**Summary: On April 26, 1971, both James Rossi and Anthony DiNozzo were born in the same New York hospital. When newborn DiNozzo dies in his mother's arms, Senior makes a life altering decision that forever changes the lives of two Italian families. **_

_**Warnings: Just some good ol' kidnapping of a newborn and cursing. Oh, and major spoilers for season 12 of NCIS.**_

_**Author's Note: I'm back! Thanks for the reviews and please later continue your support. I do love reviews. Enjoy the story, please!**_

Twenty-four years later, Anthony David DiNozzo had worked at NCIS – Naval Criminal Investigative Services – for over twelve years. He was previously a police officer for four years, long ago, and later became a detective before finally finding his calling as a federal agent with a tested IQ higher than his coworkers knew and an above average math and reading skills. Only his mother knew that he could read over six hundred words a minute. Beyond that, he held a Bachelor of Arts degree in Physical Education and a Master's Degree in Psychology, along with numerous of classes in profiling and computer education. Tony had an expensive Italian taste which was often complemented by women and men alike in passing. His previous partner and friend from Philadelphia PD, who later became his current girlfriend, Zoe Keates, frequently went shopping with him for their wardrobe. The couple had both aged gracefully from their young rookie days.

She was connected with him, much more so than his ex- fiancée Wendy Miller. Zoe was eye catching, full of nostalgia and completely breath taking, allowing him to remove his mind from Ziva David for the first time since she left. He could truly be himself – be happy and actually breathe – for the first time in over a year.

Together, Tony and Zoe spoke about the good ol' times. Both enjoyed movie marathons and long dates out of the house when the two had time off. His absolute favorite movie was, of course, _It's a Wonderful Life, _for a reason all but a few knew about. Zoe enjoyed gangster films herself, but she spared her boyfriend the dread of watching them. He claimed they were far too real, and from all her years on the force, she could see the truth in his bright eyes. He spoke from experience. The couple were unable to speak of their work, both under oath, but Zoe did know he underwent many months of deep undercover work in Peoria and later, Baltimore. Tony, who was usually always truthful and rarely ever lied – for as long as the two had knew each other – was an amazing, caring man, who was hurt more times than his heart could handle. He was opening up, though, ever so slowly.

She knew her boyfriend was kind, loving. He cared when no one else did. His team was much the same way for him. He held each and every member of his team with high regards, considering his entire team family.

Timothy McGee, the tall, skinny man with a retreating hairline was like Tony's younger brother, the two sticking together like glue for over eleven years as other partners came and went. Ellie Bishop was the newest addition to the makeshift family. The young, blond and married agent wore sweaters and professional pants. She was smart, ready to please their boss, Special Agent Jethro Gibbs, a retired Marine sniper who knew and saw way too much in his short fifty something years of life. He was something of a father to Tony. Ducky, the grandfatherly man to all he met, was an elderly ME with a strong backbones and large, weak heart. Abby Sciuto was the sisterly figure to Tony. She walked with a happy, forever young attitude and always had black, pigtailed hair. She was there for the older man in any situation.

Together, along with Jimmy Palmer, the seven man team were standing in the bullpen early on Tuesday morning. Tony couldn't help but think of his girlfriend as he spoke for the group, smooth talking and leading the introductions to the FBI Behavioral Analyst Unit, all of who were, impressively enough, profilers. The agent hoped he could test his skills against the best of the competing agency.

"And finally, this is our boss, Leroy Jethro Gibbs," he finished, a bright DiNozzo smile sitting upon his lips. His brown hair stood straight, slightly parted on the top of his head courtesy of Zoe. He wore black suit pants – his matching jacking sitting on his chair – with a light blue button up along with his favorite black tie and belt. His shirt was rolled up along his elbows. His brown, leather dress shoes completed his outfit. Overall, he looked like a well-dressed, hardworking man of society. He crossed his arms, standing next to his ever graying boss, dressed in black dress pants, polo and sports jacket.

The BAU outnumbered the NCIS field agents by two, yet each member looked well needed and of value. A shorter man, with an indignant expression, was obviously the boss, standing lead of his team. He was dressed casually in a well-fitting dark colored suit and standing next to a young, skinny woman with short brown hair, perhaps the perhaps the Probie of the team, dressed as if she was trying too hard in a low cut black shirt and pants. She looked ready for a date rather than a federal investigation. A tall, lanky nerd with unruly brown hair and a dark patterned sweater vest, a white button up under that, stood next to a strong, lighter skinned black man dressed in a gray, long sleeved shirt with visible whiskers around his face. The two men shared a comfortable bond, leaning closely to each other. Tony wondered if the two were brotherly or something more, but mentally shrugged, ultimately not caring. A blond woman stood near the two. Finally, standing tall and away from the group was a stocky, angry looking man, with crossed, defensive arms and small, growing gut. He was dressed well in an expensive Italian suit and purple button up with dark blue vertical lines rising up and down on the fabric.

He had good taste, Tony could easily admit, yet he looked vaguely familiar – which was strange. He had an obvious graying goatee on his ageing face, with dark, narrowed brown eyes staring calculatingly at him, clearly thinking. Which, more notably, the way he watched Tony was rather creepy, but the younger agent made no comment on the subject.

To Tony, even though he considered his own team large, especially when he considered his previous two men (and women) partners he had through his years at the agency, the seven people who surrounded him all looked equally value members of the BAU, much like the NCIS family.

"I'm Agent Jareau, the communications liaison, I believe we spoke over the phone," the skinny woman with long, shoulder length blond hair said. She was well dressed, standing in a white button up that was neatly tucked into a black pencil skirt. "This is the BAU; SSA Hotchner, Agent Callahan, Doctor Reid, Agent Morgan and –"

"David Rossi," Tony finished, a light bulb going off in his head. He had completed straining his brain for an answer of who, exactly, the strange agent watching him was. The NCIS agent smiled brightly as he walked towards the older man, with more elation than his team had seen in several years. The man felt as if he was walking on air. He held his hand out for a handshake, green eyes wide with excitement. "Nice to finally meet you," he said with respect, ignoring the peculiar looks he received from his entire team. His tone held more eagerness and familiarity than he should when speaking to a stranger, his heart pounding deeply in his chest despite his large, enthusiastic smile. Tony's palms were clammy for the first time in many years. He felt like he was going to his first day in military school instead of meeting a man who had practically changed his life.

He stood tall in front of the man he had never actually met, his head held with pride. Tony had never imagined – never considered – this day. He was meeting his longtime friend and mentor, who he had not spoken to in several years with the exception of a few holiday cards every couple of months.

"Tony DiNozzo," Rossi said, smiling. "It's a pleasure to put a name to a face."

Gibbs frowned, watching the interaction with curiosity, his blue eyes narrowed, arms crossed. Never before had his agent mentioned a David Rossi. "DiNozzo," the boss man said with a raised eyebrow to finish his question.

Tony turned, now standing next to Rossi, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. He saw both teams staring at the two men who apparently knew each other, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Oh…I guess this does look weird. I – uh – it's kinda hard to explain, boss-"

"Not at all," Rossi spoke with a clearly amused smirk, placing a gentle hand on the younger man's left shoulder. "Tony was a big fan of my book some 25 years or so ago."

"You make me feel old, sir," Tony laughed.

"Don't call me sir," he demanded, brushing a hand through his hair. "We've exchanged mail for over two decades… you make _me_ feel old." Both laughed at the exchange, further confusing their teams.

"Wait," Tim said, green eyes filled with equal levels of excitement and confusion. "You can remember fan mail from over two decades ago?" He silently wondered if he would ever be on the same level of the older, more famous author. The young man felt shocked at the meeting the father of all great federal agent authors, and surprised by the fact his friend knew such an important man (and even more surprised that Tony actually read).

"No, nothing like that," Rossi admitted. "We kept in contact for years after the initial letter." He kept his hand on Tony's shoulder for two long moments before releasing his grip with a squeeze of his hand. He felt…he couldn't explain how he felt. Happy, he supposed, at finally meeting the man he had watched grow from a scared young adult to the federal agent he was now, and both men were smiling. Rossi could feel his heart racing. The man next to him had grown well from that broken man he once was, fresh from that deadly fire in Baltimore.

Gibbs had taken over the talking – big surprise, right? – and the investigation into the newest DC serial killer unofficially begun. The two bosses started a pissing match nearly as soon as they walked into the meeting room. Each men were alpha males with type a personalities trying to control the other's team; obviously, neither were please.

The only thing the NCIS team could do was wait for the next victim and stage agents near places similar to the last half a dozen body dumps. The BAU, it seemed, could do more. They were profiling, seated comfortably in seats around the rectangle table, the good doctor standing near a large dry erase board mapping out addresses and other information about the six know victims, all of whom were found tortured to death.

Abby was running evidence found in the latest scene. She and Tim had been the two who had found the pattern in victims. The director was the one to call for the BAU. A half a day later, here they were. Two teams who had never worked with each other before. Tension was high between most of the members, with the exception of Rossi and Tony, who acted as if they actually knew each other for years.

"All victims were Marines. Three were career, two who reenlisted, and one just out of basic, missing an average of 24 hours before found in different Church parking lots. No visible victimology. At this point, the abduction scene is unknown," Hotch said, standing over his iPad. He stared at the military produced pictures of the victims dressed in their full uniforms.

_Edward Sheppard, _a young, blond haired new enlister. His blue eyes were filled with wonder and innocence. He had recently just finished boot camp, missing in action for his Advanced Individual Training (AIT). Raised in Kansas, he had nothing in common with the other victims.

_Zachery Garner. _He was thirty year old, with darker colored skin and from New Orleans. He had just recently reenlisted after his divorce with his wife of three years. His son and daughter were two years old, now in custody of the mother.

_Andrew Robinson _was a white, sixty year old career Marine. He had wrinkles over his wrinkles, with a large nose and brown eyes. He had a temper to kick, and was threatened with forced leave more than once. There was a mark in his file stating he had not passed his yearly military physical.

_Zane Harmon_ was a young, twenty-four year old who had just reenlisted a month ago. He had brown hair and brown eyes, with a CDL. He had no known family and nothing else was said about him in the file.

_Marvin Sands_ was sixty-five years old First Sergeant. He looked good for his age, with graying hair and sharp green eyes. He had one tattoo on his arm that he had gotten before being drafted into the military during the early 1970s, just after the Vietnam War draft started. Not only had he lived the in the deadly environment, but he had stayed in the his branch with dozens of honors over the years.

_Rodney Meyers_ was fifty-six. He was the latest victim, with dark skin and even darker eyes. He smirked in his outdated picture, with shaved, gray hair and a wrinkled face. He held the highest position of all of the men, a Sergeant Major of over twelve years.

"Given that the men share nothing in common, I don't think the unsub is using them as a surrogate for someone else. They differ in race, ranking and age," Reid said.

"The killer is angry," Tony said. "He stabbed the victims an average of thirty times. That takes a lot of effort and time."

"Actually," Reid said, nodding. "When the unsub finished torturing the men, they were dumped into church parking lots. This could be the unsub exhibiting remorse." His lanky body was turned, facing the clear board, not looking to the teams as he wrote with a red marker.

"Ah," Ducky said calmly from his spot near the younger profilers with his Scottish accent strong. "If I may add, all of the victims were alive for several hours post dumping. He left them early into the night, in odd places to leave them unseen until daylight, affectively killing the men. Why leave them in churches, rather than hospitals…? Why not avoid regret after the torture by taking them for help?"

"What if our guy doesn't want to help them, but he doesn't want to kill them, either," Tony said, sandwiched between McGee and Rossi, resting his left elbow on the black table as he leaned back into his chair. "So he leaves them hidden at strange angles around the parking lots and ensures their death, all without pointing a gun to the victims' heads to get the end result." He spoke without question in his voice, knowing he was correct about the unsub. He had studied years for this moment.

There was a pause in the room, strange looks being sent to the agent, and Tony felt himself blush once again, for the second time in one day. He was slightly embarrassed by the attention, and even more embarrassed by the redness along his neck and cheeks. The two teams looked to him as if he spoken balderdash. Doctor Reid had turned from the board and looked to Tony, nodding enthusiastically with approving brown eyes. "That could account for the weak form of torture on the victims." The tall genius crossed his arms, now frowning. "From what I read in the past, Marines are all well trained, and depending on the person, can withstand a certain extent of anything, torture included. The unsub either did not know this or – or is trying to project his own pain through the victims."

"He could be a sadist," Callahan said from her corner of the room. She sat at the corner of the packed table, near Gibbs and Agent Bishop. It was her statement that caused a conversation between the BAU, the team speaking in words that only Ducky and Tony understood. Gibbs crossed his arms, not liking when people spoke in geek, yet unable to lose his temper at the unknown FBI unit. For once, he actually wished he was working with his friend Tobias Fornell. Tim ignored the talk, keeping his head in his laptop, searching for possible dump spots.

"Oh – er – wait a second…" McGee said from his seat, frowning and typing faster. "All six of the Marines frequented Arlington National Cemetery. Every serious holiday, every birthday and every special event, they brought flowers to different graves in different sections of the graveyard." He continued typing before his face lost his coloring. "Whoa," he said in true surprise. "Gibbs, the men they visited were all in the same eight man infiltration squad that ran in Iraq – killed on their last mission over five years ago."

"What were our victims to the deceased team," Hotch asked with a frown.

McGee muttered under his breath as he typed, searching the screen for clues. "Here," he answered after two, long and tense more minutes. "I cross checked all of the men. Our victims were brothers, cousins – and in one case, son – of the murdered infiltration team."

Hotch stood up, on his cell phone within seconds and walked out of the room.

"So our unsub is doing this out of revenge? Kill the closet family of his enemies? Are we looking for an Iraqi soldier," Morgan asked.

"Perhaps the _unsub_, as your team calls him, is in fact, looking for revenge, my dear man," Ducky said from his seat. "However, whoever out killer is, is obviously not a trained man, nor a man at all. Correct me if I am wrong, but the killer could be a woman. I do believe this theory could explain the hesitation marks along the knife wounds on the tortured Marines."

"The wounds are full of anger and spite – women normally aren't this violent," Callahan argued.

"You obviously haven't met any of my ex-wives," Rossi said, elbowing the side of Tony's arm, both men smirking at an unknown inside joke between the two.

"Yeah, but the men were all stabbed over _forty_ times. That's messier than what women usually do. Women tend to stick to cleaner ways of murder and disposal, like drowning."

"As unusual as women serial killers are, Ducky could be correct," Reid said. "Look at these pictures between the six victims," he ripped eight pictures from the board, the tops of the paper tearing from the pins, and set them onto the table. "All of the knife wounds are caused by the same weapon – and look here," he pointed to the stab wounds. "The bruising pattern suggests these men were tied up with a metal chain and pulled upwards. I calculated the height and weight, and I believe the unsub left the men barley touching the floor when the torture began. If you study the angles of the wounds, most are going upwards, so we can correctly guess that the unsub we are looking for is shorter than the victims. None of the wounds are that deep, and were previously assumed that an untrained man caused the damage, but given a comparison of a woman's strength to that of a man's, Ducky's analysis can be right."

"Hey, if what McGee said is right – which it always is – then we can pull our agents out of the field," Tony spoke up.

"Yeah," Gibbs said gruffly, thinking along the same lines of his agent. He watched Rossi with keen eyes, not liking the way the man sat near Tony. He walked with a strong military demeanor out of the room, going to update the director of NCIS.

"The files of the Marine squad should be here by the morning," JJ informed the group, closing her cell phone and sat down in the conference room.

Hours later, both teams were still in the conference room. They had no new leads. "We should expect two more victims within the week," Hotch said. "The victims were all taken days apart, with no real known place of abduction."

"Garcia is working on finding the next two potential victims," Morgan said.

"How is a woman abducting fully trained Marines," Bishop asked. "There were no indications of any drugs, right, Ducky?"

"No drugs were found in any of the victim's systems, my dear."

"Do you think we're dealing with two unsubs," Tony asked, crossing his arms.

"That could be possible," Rossi answered.

"Why are they kidnapping Marines related to a dead squad?"

"Abby and I are looking into that now," Tim answered, looking up from his laptop with tired green eyes. His shirt was in disarray, his usual neat, thin brown hair messy.

Callahan yawned. "It's getting late," Gibbs said from where he stood. It was nearing twelve o'clock in the morning. No one questioned the man, everyone fully ready for sleep, most standing from their chairs. The crowd of agents thinned, Morgan following Tony into the men's bathroom down the hall from the meeting room.

"Hey, you're DiNozzo, right," Morgan asked as the two men did their business, looking ahead at the white bricked wall. He did not wait for an answer to continue speaking. "Where'd you learn your stuff?"

"Around," Tony told him, moving to the sink at the same time as the other agent. No one but Gibbs, Ducky and Rossi knew of his extra degree. His team, nor Zoe, would hopefully never know, either. He fully enjoyed playing the role of the bunkum senior field agent.

"You ever think about becoming a profiler? You would be good on our team."

Tony laughed, throwing his head back, leaning against the long marble sink with crossed arms. "You're as bad as Rossi."

"What's the story on that, anyways," Morgan asked, eyebrows lowering in curiosity and confusion. He – heck, the entire team, really – were questioning that relationship. The agents had jumped together, talking at great speeds. For two men who had never met, the agents _knew_ each other. They had similar body language and strongly matching jaws. Reid, JJ and Callahan were probably gossiping right about now near the parked SUVs. He crossed his arms, long sleeved wrinkling at the movements.

"Me and Rossi? He helped me out of a bad situation."

"I thought you two never met until today."

"We didn't. Now stop profiling me, man. It's weird," Tony told him, rolling his eyes as he walked out of the room. He didn't stop walking until he finally sat in his car, smiling as he drove off. Despite how tired he truly felt, he couldn't wait to get home and tell his girlfriend of the current events.

"How close are you to Agent DiNozzo," Hotch asked as soon as the two were alone in the SUV. It was a tight squeeze in the smaller than normal vehicle. He blamed the economy. The men sat in their respected seats, Rossi on the passenger side, Hotch driving, their jackets thrown into the back and ties displaced. The older of the two sighed heavily, combing his short, fastly graying hair with a hand.

"I have a soft spot for the kid," Rossi said truthfully, glancing at his boss. His brown eyes were full of truth and compassion. His heart felt heavy, his head pounding. He had just met one man he never thought he'd see. The young kid with obvious styled hair and expensive designer clothing seemed as stubborn and smart as he sounded when they had exchanged letters and in later years, talked over the phone. God, that kid had grown.

Over the years, he had seen photos of the agent; in newspaper articles, over the news, on the internet. He had almost gone to the hospital to visit Tony the day he discovered the surprise of the plague. _That kid_, Rossi thought, shaking his head, _he was something special_. Rossi had known that from the first letter.

"How much of a soft spot, David? Will it affect the case?"

"I highly doubt meeting a fan of my books will affect a case, Aaron," he told his friend with a thick, raised eyebrow. He closed his eyes as he spoke, leaning back into the uncomfortable, black leather seat, breathing deeply.

"You two seem close."

"That happens when you write to someone for over 20 years."

"Does your connection with him have anything to do with your son, David? They would be around the same age."

"I kept an eye on the kid over the years, helped him out when I could," he said, opening his eyes to stare at the dark road ahead of the agents. His breathing was regular, his skin a normal tan coloring, though his stomach turned when speaking of his late child. "Even got him a spot at the FBI Academy in Quantico once; damn kid threw away the application," Rossi added, head shaking in disapproval. "Said he wanted _to create his own way into the world_," he spoke with frustration.

"You're ignoring my question."

Rossi allowed another sigh to escape his mouth, brown eyes closing. His chest felt the weight of an elephant, his stomach twisting boisterously. He could feel his breathing catch. He had hoped to ignore that question. "James Rossi and Anthony DiNozzo were born on the exact day, at the same hospital," he said, a frown visible upon his tan, aging face. "I even met his father."

Hotch swallowed hard, staring at the empty roads of Washington DC. He breathed deeply, wondering how his friend could be so strong. He could never imagine losing his own son. Hotch knew he would have become a hermit if such thing would happen to his own small family. He wouldn't be able to live without his son, especially after the traumatic death of his ex-wife. His son, he was his life. "Are you good for the investigation?"

"Of course. Tony…he reminds me of myself at his age…makes me wonder how James would have been."

The boss could feel his gut twist at the sentiment. He could envision the fear, the loss, the breathtaking pain of losing a child – an infant. He was nauseous at the thought. He loved his own son more than anything. Rossi, however, felt anew. He felt hope and love and happiness. He had helped raise that man from a broken young adult in the hospital to a federal agent. He had aided a man to grow into what he had long ago hoped his son would have grown to become. He had done that. James…James was gone for good. He had vacated the world many years ago, leaving a large, painful hole in his heart. With the death of his son was decades of nightmares, remorse and divorces. Now, Rossi had another chance. He could see how his child would have turned out. His heart fluttered against his chest.

"Aaron, do you think we could make a quick detour?"

Tony truly enjoyed going home after a long day at work. He could forget about the serial killers they had no means of catching, even if just for a little while. Zoe was already asleep in their newly purchased king sized bed. He had undressed nearly an hour ago, embarrassed beyond belief at what could be easily seen on his expensive tie – a mustard stain. With no doubt, the FBI team – Rossi included – had seen it. There was a light knock at his door. Tony already knew who it was, not bothering to look before he opened the door.

"Hey, kid," Rossi said, dressed tiredly, jacket unbuttoned, shirt untucked and tie skewed. He looked happy, standing with a large Italian grin in the doorway of the reasonable sized apartment. There was a wall filled of bookshelves, with a small goldfish swimming in a round tank near the left side of the wooden object. A small, blue cloth couch was in the middle of the room, a table and television directly in front of that. The apartment itself seemed roomy, with trophies and pictures to decorate.

"David," Tony greeted with a matching smile, dressed in gray sweats and a black t-shirt. They shared a brief hug, now meeting without the curious eyes of their teams. He could still feel the excitement from the day, now renewed. "I can't believe I'm finally meeting you."

"Same here. Mind if I take a seat on your couch?"

"Do you even have to ask? Oh – would you like a beer?"

"Not on a school night. Thanks, though."

"How about a cigar? I have a couple of Cubans from an old undercover op I ran a while back."

"You know my weakness, kid," Rossi laughed joyfully, his gut moving as he threw his head back. The two shared large, strong jaws and long Italian noses. Nostalgia was deep within the room. Rossi felt as if he was looking into the eyes of his late ex-wife. His breath caught as he laughed, more to himself than anyone, his brown eyes wide. He felt his gut twist for a third time that day, but he ignored the feeling as Tony disappeared for three minutes, muttering in the other room. A second voice started, sleepy and uncaring. He returned into the large living room with a wooden box full of cigars. "A wonderful collection, I see," the older man nodded with approval.

"You know us Italians," the younger agent laughed, falling next to his friend on the soft couch. "Wanna watch a movie," he asked, placing the cigar he took from the box to examine on the wooden table in front of him.

"No, I just wanted to drop this off," Rossi answered, grabbing a stack of papers from the inside his jacket. The paper was worn, slightly folded from the position of origin. "Fornell kept an eye on you. Wanted you on his team since the day you two met."

"That's an application for the BAU," Tony told him, raising an eyebrow at the older man and friend.

"What can I say," the author said, standing up and grabbing a cigar for the road, setting it on the inside suit pocket. "I don't play well with others. Just look at the application this time. I'm getting tired of using double stamps to send this much paper."

"I'm happy at NCIS."

"You could be happy at the BAU," Rossi informed him, opening the door. "Give it some thought," he added, closing the door as he walked away.

"He acts exactly how he writes," Tony said to no one, shaking his head as he stood up, left fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was fully ready for bed. "Night, Kate," he called to his goldfish before he entered his bedroom.

Tony was back at work before six in the morning, moving sluggishly as he walked. There was another body. The two teams were once again in the meeting room, worry set deep on everyone's face. When comparing the other killings, which had weeks apart, neither of the teams sat easily. If she had killed a cop, what would happen next?

Would the unsubs continue killing uninvolved men?

"I believe Abagail and I may have solved why exactly your unsubs has killed a civilian," Ducky spoke, sitting at the head of the table, near where Abby stood.

"The unsubs wouldn't change motive without a reason," Hotch said, his brown eyes obtaining dark circles from sleeplessness, along with the rest of the two teams. His hair was combed down the best of his abilities, though he could only assume it was still a mess. His outfit matched yesterdays, with a white button up.

"The murderers are becoming more destructive, angry; the time between her killings are lessening. She is furious, probably, because the last two members of the killed Marine squad have no family in the service. If you look at the similarities between the seventh member and the cop, I believe you will be surprised. Abby, if you please," Ducky said, turning to the gothic woman and her screen.

The black cladded woman with black pigtails and a white lab coat nodded, jumping about to start the newly moved television that sat on the movable desk in the meeting room, plugging her laptop into the screen. A picture of the latest victim and the long dead Marine popped up, side by side, surprising the room.

"The similarities are remarkable," Ducky said. Both men had matching chestnut brown colored hair, fair skin, with strong jaws, square shoulders and long noses. They wore similarly styled clothing, with brave, confident brown eyes, their eyebrows thick.

"Neither are related, either," Abby added.

"Ducky," Spencer started. "Your report states that the victim has defensive wounds on him. The other men did not. Yet the cop is undertrained compared to the Marines. Is it possible that the unsub didn't plan this attack?"

"She took weeks to stalk the other victim, to learn their daily schedules and to abduct the men without the assistant of a drug," Hotch said from his chair, crossing his arms. "The unsub is devolving."

"The unsub did not torture this man. She quickly stabbed him in the abdominal cavity, just below the stomach. Michael Smith quickly bled out, only to be dragged away and slammed into a small crevice, believably a trunk."

"So we'll have evidence when we find this guy," Gibbs said, nodding.

"Yes. Mr. Smith was left a mere mile from here, in the St. Mary's Church parking lot."

Tony sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Do you think-"

The door opened. All of the agents looked up in surprise. No one with the exception of the Director had permission to enter the room. In the doorway was a short, smiling man with a smug facial expression. He stood about 5'6 inches tall. His hair was gray, slicked back, his hairline residing. The man seemed pleased he interrupted the meeting. He wore an expensive suit, a matching hat in his hands, his cheekbones hollow and chin small. Most importantly, he was obviously not the director.

"Dad," Tony jumped up, his eyebrows frowning. He was unhappy at the sight of his father. Around him, Hotch looked to Rossi with concern, his agent tense and forcibly still. Neither man had a good feeling about the current situation. Gibbs seemed just as angry as his own agent. Tim sat with surprised while Bishop was smiling at the sight. She liked the older man, and the stories he had on her fellow agent. The other NCIS members looked displeased at the unfolding events. The agents of the BAU looked simply confused by the interaction. They were all profiling movements of the father and son. Senior, with his tall, overconfident stance and Tony, who now slouched from where he stood.

"Junior," Anthony DiNozzo Senior exclaimed, walking into the room slowly. "I was going to call, but –" he paused, glancing around the unusually large room. His brown eyes locked into that of SSA David Rossi. He would recognize that man anywhere. Senior lost several shades of coloring in his wrinkled face, his stomach twisting painfully.

_**Hey, guys! Third chapter is finally finished; apologies for the delay. I would like to take this time and personally thank the reviewers who were kind enough to both praise and analyzed the story. To**__** dyml, Jesco123, female half - breed, sgmgurl, LAG0802, leahk80, DS2010, cflat, Guest, Guest, .37, EvE79, camficlove, cjb1990, XxXxJackBlackxXxX, bridgetlynn, arwen9117, Albionia, Maybe2Morrow, guest, Meian Kurayami, Goddess Seshat, Chermayne, Guest, thank you! An extra special thanks to Meian Kurayami, bridgetlynn and cjb1990 for your amazing and thoughtful reviews. You guys made my day. **_

_**This was the most reviews I have ever received on a published piece of fanfiction. I would also like to thank everyone who put the story in their favorites and/or is following this. Most importantly, thanks to every person who read the story!**_

_**Please point out any mistakes in the story so far. Reviews are always nice. I do enjoy criticism to the upmost degree. **_

_**I'll update either next week or the week after that. The plot is on the run now. The next chapter will get heated. Remember, reviews keep me motivated. **_

_**With hugs and much thanks, **_

_**The Reading Elf**_


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